


The Shadows of Snowflakes

by Spigu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Curses, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-10-07 05:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10353564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spigu/pseuds/Spigu
Summary: John Watson is the anticipation of a lightning strike, the seconds before electricity surges through the sky, enough to make the hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand up. But the actual strike never comes and he’s left waiting, holding his breath, skin prickling. Desperate for something to change.“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks. The words taste like a beginning.It's been winter in London for years, Sherlock is cursed, and John may or may not be able to help him.





	1. The Curse

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter follows the events of A Study in Pink but starts diverging from the episode towards the end, and the rest of the story is completely different. The M-rated stuff starts in Chapter Two.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: (brief) referenced/implied suicidal thoughts, implied past drug addiction.
> 
>   
> (cover art by me)

If you had mentioned curses to Sherlock Holmes twelve years ago, he would certainly have scoffed and turned away before you got to the end of the sentence. Curses belonged to the world of children, as did magic and all the other ridiculous fantasies some people insisted on believing in.

This was, of course, before the cold black thorns spread across his chest.

At first, it was just a tingling sensation in his upper body – easy to ignore, like almost everything about his transport. But gradually his chest started to itch and hurt, and one morning he awoke to find a curious black spot above his left nipple. As the day passed, the spot changed shape, thinning and curving, and through the sleepless night it continued to grow and had soon reached a form reminiscent of a small thorn branch. Along with it came the cold that would occasionally grip his body and steal the air from his lungs.

He knew what the cause was, obviously. Sentiment. The icy fingers belonged to all the unnecessary feelings he couldn’t let go, no matter how tight he shut the doors to his mind. All his life Mycroft had tried to warn him not to get too attached to things because eventually they would hurt him.

_Caring is not an advantage._

_He was just a dog._

_You’ll get a new one._

But he had failed to listen, and this pain, this _curse_ , was a punishment. Under no circumstances would he admit it to Mycroft, but he had been right. Sherlock was prone to addiction, too “sensitive”, he couldn’t deal with emotions. From now on he had to work harder, so he traded them for a sweet substance in his veins – finally, a distraction strong enough to hold his attention for longer than a few precious moments.

Eventually he had to let that go, too, as the layer of dirt under his nails got a little too thick, the days blurred into one another, and the thorns still wouldn’t disappear. 

With the intention of leaving _that time_ behind him, he invented a job for himself, created a website and waited.

 

***

London has been under winter’s rule for exactly three years, one month and five days. Sherlock is used to the snow by now, even enjoys it occasionally. The frost outside is considerably easier to handle than the cold nestling inside his body.

During the day, he is slowly becoming a walking wax doll, a close-enough replica of the real-life model but the smile on his face a little too stiff, the eyes hollow and unseeing. However, when he roams the streets at night and it’s snowing, he can make out the individual shadows of the snowflakes in the bright spots under the streetlights. The silent movement of the shadows calms his engine-like mind, and their brief existence is a welcome reminder of the shortness of life.

Still, after all this time, he longs for something he’s not supposed to have.

On one January evening, when the grey mass of snow stretches across the city like a tired sigh, a single black curve creeps a few inches upward on its way towards his neck, just below his clavicle. Sherlock has been kicked out of his flat by a furious landlord _(not really his fault, he didn’t anticipate the experiment would go so wrong)_ , and he’s bored and feeling a little rebellious.

He decides that he wants a friend. Or at least someone who tolerates his experiments and his talking and not talking, and his magician’s hat full of moods, like rabbits whose colour even he can seldom guess before they jump out of it. The inside of his head is not always the safest place to be, so he would appreciate company. He might call his mind a palace, but sometimes it reminds him more of a labyrinth, its hedges high and the right path hard to find.

He mentions wanting a flatmate to Mike Stamford in passing, and already a few hours later Mike returns to Barts with an old acquaintance. Sherlock only needs to look at the stranger for half a second before his decision is made. He feels like a little boy in a bicycle shop: he sets his eyes on the perfect one and altogether refuses to consider the other options his mother points out to him. 

He calculates the situation and comes up with a convenient lie. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” 

As expected, Mike has left his own in his coat pocket, and Sherlock has successfully created an opening for himself.

John Watson, as he learns, is the anticipation of a lightning strike, the seconds before electricity surges through the sky, enough to make the hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand up. But the actual strike never comes and he’s left waiting, holding his breath, skin prickling. Desperate for something to change.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks. The words taste like a beginning. 

All that remains is to point out some of his own worst qualities in order to test the waters a bit, see if John Watson flinches and comes up with an awkward excuse to leave the situation, like most people probably would. But from his dumbstruck (though also confused and slightly annoyed) expression Sherlock can tell he’s not most people.

Encouraged by this, Sherlock smiles and winks at John before leaving the laboratory. As soon as the doors shuts behind him he lets a sheepish grin spread across his face. Perhaps it had been a little too much, perhaps the man won’t come tomorrow, but at least he had tried.

He stops short at the hospital exit. Bright light hits his face as he stares through the door at the changed scenery in front of him, his left hand frozen on the handle and the other clutching his riding crop. 

The sky is clear, all hints of the gentle snowfall of the morning gone. On the ground, there are naked grey areas where the snow has begun to melt, creating little puddles. When he steps outside, he can’t see his breath anymore; the temperature has risen at least six degrees. 

_Impossible._

It takes him almost a whole cab ride to notice the pain in his chest has eased considerably.

 

***

The next day turns out to be a bizarre one. He is almost thankful for the two hours of sleep he managed to get because it makes his currently racing thoughts a bit duller at the edges. He tries to busy himself with moving his possessions in the new flat in Baker Street, but can’t resist counting the awfully long minutes until seven p.m.

John does turn up at the arranged time. He seems a bit more comfortable with himself than yesterday, his eyes brighter and more curious, though Sherlock thinks they are still lacking some life. And they’ll really have to get rid of the psychosomatic limp.

The case of the pink lady provides an excellent chance to prove his deduction right, but somewhere along the way Sherlock gets too carried away and soon realises he has left John behind. John with his bad leg and undoubtedly dark thoughts, John who has yet to decide whether he wants to move in with him or not (though Sherlock suspects, endeavours to make sure he does). John who’s quite possibly hiding a gun in his drawer.

The question, then, is: how can he call John back? Danger, he decides. And indeed, not long after he sends the texts he hears the already familiar thuds of the cane on the stairs.

 

***

John called his deductions _amazing_ and _extraordinary_. Between thoughts about the case these two adjectives resurface, each time bringing a flush of pleasure on Sherlock’s cheeks.

He takes John out to Angelo’s to pass the time and to ask the owner about anything unusual happening near the restaurant, which turns out to be fruitless. John tries to fill the silence at the table, and while the incessant drivel and “small talk” of other people usually works only to annoy Sherlock, he finds he doesn’t mind John’s questions, even though he can’t really see the point to them and they rather distract him from the case. At least until John for some unfathomable reason starts interrogating him about romantic relationships.

“So you’ve got a boyfriend, then?”

“No.”

“Right, okay,” John says. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip – a nervous tick? (Or a sign of attraction? Look out for others.) “You’re unattached, like me. Fine. Good.”

 _Good?_ Sherlock is quite sure that what his stomach is doing right now is impossible, but it doesn’t stop the fluttering sensation. He blinks hard a few times and forces himself to calm down. John Watson is… interested in him? This is much more and much faster than Sherlock anticipated, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. In the end, he chooses the safest option. 

“John, erm… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for anythingꟷ“

“No. No, I’m not asking… No. I’m just saying, it’s all fine.”

Sherlock studies the dark blue eyes, so wide and intent, and decides to believe him. After all, he has already been wrong about John Watson once before.

But he’s not wrong about the limp. As they leave the restaurant in a hurry, Sherlock throws a quick look back and smirks, proud of himself, and pulls out his phone to send a text.

_I’m afraid my companion left his walking cane at the restaurant. Would you be so kind as to bring it to 221B Baker Street in an hour? SH_

The chase that follows is a blurry collection of sweat, adrenaline and laughter, and when they are finally leaning back against the wall in Baker Street, shoulders brushing, Sherlock’s chest doesn’t even twinge. The thorns are sleeping, the cold more manageable than in years. Contrary to what he’d expected, having someone akin to a friend accompanying him seems to have a positive effect on the curse. An unsettling thought – he needs more data. But that has to wait. The case requires his attention; he has no time to listen to John’s admittedly charming, high-pitched giggle.

 

***

Jeff Hope is clever, but after sitting and talking with him long enough Sherlock starts to grow tired of his so-called game. A poisoned pill is not how he’d kill himself - it rather lacks a dramatic aspect. But his expectations might be a bit high: he has a curse, after all. It doesn’t get much more dramatic than that.

“You must have a sponsor,” Sherlock says, studying the bottle set in front of him.

Hope rises his eyebrows. “You don’t think I could come up with this myself, Mr ‘olmes? You underestimate me. They all do. Always.”

Sherlock leans back and considers this. Hope doesn’t seem to be showing any tell-tale signs of lying, so as unlikely as it seems, he might indeed be working alone. Interesting. Maybe coming here wasn’t as much a waste of time as he’d begun to think, but still, the game isn’t worth playing and the gun is clearly fake.

He stands to leave the room, but something about Hope’s next words manages to make him walk back to the table and snatch one of the bottles.

He shakes the pill onto his palm and lifts it against the light, his hand shaking ever so slightly, his heart beating fast. There’s a brief, sharp stab pain in his chest, as if the curse’s last call for attention. While he’s quite sure he’s picked the right bottle, there’s always the slightest chance he’ll never see daylight again.

_Still the addict._

The pill is almost touching his lips when there’s a gunshot and the sound of shattering glass. Sherlock runs to the window, the shards crunching under his shoes, but his saviour has already disappeared from sight. Hope is lying on the floor with a fatal wound: he has barely a minute of life left.

Sherlock stares silently as his eyes dim and his pained gasps grow fainter. His own body trembles once, twice, until he inhales deeply and composes himself. Not much later the police burst in, lead him out of the building and put some sort of a blanket on him. He isn’t paying much attention, his mind too preoccupied with the mysterious shooter. But as he’s trying to explain the possible leads to Lestrade, his eyes drift to a figure behind the police tape and his mouth falls open.

John is standing there, hands clasped behind his back, and though Sherlock tends to sneer at romanticism, he has to admit that in this moment John looks like an unlikely hero more than anything. Sherlock’s mind seems to have frozen somewhere between two thoughts: _Stupid, of course it’s him_ and _Oh my god, he saved my life_. After quickly dealing with Lestrade, he walks over to John, who avoids his gaze and appears nonchalant until Sherlock reveals that he has worked it out.

“Are you all right?” he asks, surprised at his sudden and desperate need to know. “You have just killed a man.”

Satisfied with John’s answer, he bites his lip and takes one more chance. “Dinner?”

“Starving.”

They grin at each other. The world seems to have grown quiet, and something unsaid drifts in the air between them, just out of reach. In Sherlock’s chest, the curse continues its slumber. Perhaps he had indeed been wrong about its cause.

But as they come home from the Chinese restaurant, bodies warm and heavy from all the exertion, there it is again, something prickling at his skin. John is still looking at him in the same way he has been ever since they walked away from the crime scene, like he’s waiting for something, and _oh_ , there’s the life that had been missing from his eyes. Sherlock finds he can’t look away either and fights to keep his expression neutral as the thorns twist and expand, quickly cooling his body. His stomach churns.

This has to stop.

He lets his smile fade slowly, then sniffs. “Good night, John.”

John studies him for a moment still, then nods as if making a decision and retreats to his bedroom upstairs.

Sherlock presses his forehead against the sitting room window, trying to will the horrible pain away. Outside, the darkness is thick, and as he stands there stuck in an endless limbo of inhale and exhale, snow starts to fall. This, at least, is familiar. 

It is not until the early hours of the morning that he realises the reason for the pain; the terrible mistake he’s made. He flops onto the sofa, turns on his laptop and starts rapidly hitting the keys.

 **Google search history** (deleted)

_how to break a curse_

_how to get rid of feelings_

_how to tell if you’re in love_

_how to tell if you’re in love with your flatm- never mind this is stupid_

_how to fall out of love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 Comments are much appreciated. Find me on [Tumblr](http://mirrorlocked.tumblr.com).
> 
> Also thanks to my lovely beta reader [SophiaFrederica](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaFrederica)! Neither of us is a native speaker, though, so feel free to point out any glaring errors.
> 
> Next chapter should be up within a month, but I'm currently working on my bachelor's thesis, so I can't make absolute promises.


	2. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve never seen anything like it. Seriously, Sherlock, what is it?”  
> Sherlock sighs; there’s no getting out of the situation. Should have just lied it was a tattoo. “It’s a curse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is very... thirsty in this chapter.
> 
>  **Warnings** : inebriation, brief mention of drugs, slight body horror

Dreams are one of the few things in Sherlock’s life he can’t control. He has tried, of course, but each time his subconscious fights back with vigorous force, presenting whatever scenarios it pleases. Sometimes they are quite pleasant: images of London in slow motion, beautiful molecule structures, detailed black-and-white maps or the gentle buzz of bees.

Sometimes, though, the curse doesn’t even leave him alone in his sleep, but instead takes the form of amber and cerulean icicles piercing his chest. In these dreams, he often opens his eyes only to find a new darkness awaiting him; the thorns have spread all over his body, binding him in place.

However, because he generally sleeps little, having no control over the dreams hasn’t been a problem until lately.

 

***

The first weeks of February are quiet and snowy; clearly the sudden warmth on the day they met had been merely a whim of the weather, as there’s no sign of the snow melting anytime soon now. In Baker Street, the days consist of tea, violin music and bickering. They get a few cases, and John writes them up on his blog (which Sherlock pretends to hate-read, but really he absorbs every word). The mood in the flat has lost some of its intensity, though Sherlock still thinks there’s some invisible spider tickling his neck.

He has been keeping a certain distance after the dangerous closeness of their first evening together. It’s not entirely unbearable, but sometimes, when they join in laughter and the corners of John’s eyes crinkle just so, he longs to get up from his chair andꟷ

However, according to the website he’d found, he’s not supposed to do that if he wants to conquer _this_ , this stupid irrational suffocating feeling that’s causing the curse to act up. So he returns to his book and ignores the spider.

 

***

One night, he dreams about losing John.

He is standing on a rooftop, looking down at a tiny ant of a man, yet even from this height he recognizes the familiar posture and gait. Hearing John’s confusion and fear on the phone makes his hands shake.

 _Stay exactly where you are_ , he says with desperation because he also means, _Wait for me, I’ll come back to you_. He’s not at all sure John understands, and it’s probably better if he doesn’t.

Sherlock falls, but doesn’t get the relief of waking up in the middle of the air that usually comes with nightmares.

In what feels like a whole another lifetime he is standing on a dancefloor, surrounded by joyful music and smiling people. His own mouth is confused, the other half of his face still trying to keep up the grin that had been there a moment ago, not quite succeeding.

John is dancing away with someone else in his arms.

Once, it had been him, in a way. But that’s over now, and he knows this with the certainty one only has in dreams.

The taste of regret lingers in his mouth mixed with that of blood from where he has been gnawing at his cheek. For the first time in months he craves a cigarette, or, if he’s completely honest with himself, something much more effective.

He also dreams about finding John, or maybe it’s John finding him; he’s not sure. These dreams are much vaguer, a rapid slideshow of hands on thighs, whispered pleadings and content sighs. Perhaps it would be more accurate to call them fantasies, fragile to the touch.

When he blinks awake to the seven a.m. light, he groans and tries to cling to the edges of the last dream, but it fades away like they always do, leaving him vulnerable, drenched in sweat and painfully hard.

_Oh._

He waits for a few minutes, but willing it away doesn’t seem to be working this time, so he squeezes his eyes shut once more, shifts onto his back and lets his right hand drift under the covers.

It’s been a while since he indulged in… this.

It doesn’t take long for his body to become a battlefield for two very different sensations. The heat of his growing desperation manages to keep its own against the chill of the curse, and he does his best to remember every (blurred) detail of the dreams as he chases the wave of pleasure, like the sea chases the moon at low tide.

And even here John finds him _(because of course it’s John finding him and not the other way around – Sherlock only knows how to lose things, after all)_ and wraps his arms around him, holding him so tight he has to stifle a cry, or perhaps a sob, that radiant smile curing all of Sherlock’s ailments, if only for a little while.

 _Oh_ , he thinks again, simple and clear, and it’s the last coherent thought he has before he meets the wave and it washes over him.

Approximately 12 minutes later there are steps outside his door, followed by a knock.

“Sherlock, you awake?”

There’s a guilty lump in Sherlock’s throat, now that his breathing has slowed to a normal speed, now that reality has caught up with him and the thorns are pricking his chest in earnest. He can’t face the real John, not now.

“Go away!” he croaks, then listens to the retreating steps, immediately regretting the outburst that had perhaps been more suggestive than anything his face might have shown if he had come out of the room when called.

He doesn’t get up until late that afternoon, until he’s sure his cheeks aren’t burning with shame anymore, until he’s picked apart the dreams that led to this situation to begin with and deleted them. (Attempted to, anyway.)

 

***

Lately, Sherlock has found another thing he can’t seem to control.

There is a word for almost everything. He doesn’t know them all ꟷ that would be impossible and a waste of time ꟷ but he knows enough to bend the world with them.

However, words have begun to fail him. They simply stop listening to him and start flowing against the current of his thoughts, and if they come out, they come out all wrong. There’s not enough of them, or there’s too many, and the sentences are full of translation errors.

He blames the curse, and then himself, the primary source.

In all honesty, he is afraid of the right words, the correct translations and what they might reveal about him. What saying them might do to him, and what hearing them might do to John. What kind of pain they would cause, and how he would never be able to erase them once they were out of his mouth.

He didn’t use to be so afraid.

 

***

John likes to go to the bar on Friday evenings. He polishes his brown shoes before going and stays late, probably trying to hit on the women there, but usually he comes home silent and alone and gives Sherlock a warning look if he so much as opens his mouth. Once or twice he has asked Sherlock to come as well, but he always refuses.

Once, John comes home early.

He’s had more alcohol than usual, so much that his balance is somewhat compromised and demeanour quite mellow. Sherlock has been keeping a keen eye on his gait lest the limp appear again, but to his silent delight it has stayed away. This time, John doesn’t seem opposed to conversation, and the melancholy aura he usually carries home from the bar is nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock crosses his legs in his armchair. “John. I assumed you were going to be late.”

“Yeah, well, I decided to come home earlier. Problem?”

The words curl around Sherlock like silk. “Of course not.”

John nods. ”It’s just, I realised something. I think.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“I see,” Sherlock says, even though John is already lost in thought and clearly not expecting an answer. He’s smiling to himself, eyes unfocused, giving Sherlock a chance to study him without trying to hide it. Frustratingly enough, he’s not able to figure out the realization John’s had. He wanted to come home, but why? Certainly not because of him; he has been sulking all day and ignoring John’s attempts at conversation for at least half of that time. The spilled beer on his shirt sleeve doesn’t tell much: there are no marks of a fight, so probably he was just clumsy due to his intoxication. He didn’t have company, otherwise he would have been too polite to excuse himself after only two hours.

“You’re gay, aren’t you?” John asks suddenly. Sherlock stares at him, startled, but John’s tone is matter-of-fact, his gaze relaxed, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. As he sways a little on the balls of his feet, the shadows on his face shift as well, each in turn revealing and hiding some of the fascinating details of his features. If, _if_ for some bizarre reason Sherlock were to touch his face, he would surely choose to examine the thin lips first, or perhaps he would trace the edges of the eye bags with his index finger, feeling the textureꟷ

“Sherlock?”

He mentally shakes himself back into focus.

“Yes,” he says, “I am.”

Obviously he’s not ashamed of the fact, but saying it feels strange. He has never denied his orientation, though it doesn’t come up often in detective work, and John hasn’t asked before, at least not directly. After his initial assumption at Angelo’s he seems to have decided Sherlock doesn’t go in for that sort of thing (which is indeed true and for a very good reason) ꟷ until tonight, it seems. He wonders if the question had been burning on John’s tongue for a long time, and if something had happened at the bar that made him ask now. Again, he has no answer. Very annoying.

“Right.” John’s smile doesn’t waver ꟷ good? After a beat, he asks, “D’you think I’m handsome?”

Judging from the playful tone, he probably means it as a joke, but Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. He feels somewhat exposed and takes a long moment to gather himself before replying.

“I… suppose you’re reasonably good-looking for someone of your age.”

“Oi, you git! I’m only a few years older than you. But cheers, I guess.” John raises an imaginary glass and flashes a grin at him. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Sherlock wants to lick the imaginary drops of wine off his lips.

 _You think so?_ he also wants to ask, but doesn’t. Instead he tries to push away all the awfully vulnerable thoughts that are suddenly flooding the corridors of his mind, as well as the hungry ones that are whispering bold ideas in his ear. Doesn’t John realise how flirty he sounds and how _soft_ he looks, standing there framed by the muted colours of the night, making it almost impossible for Sherlock to remember his decision? He could never forget this man, but he must at least be able to let go of the more tender thoughts associated with him, for the sake of both of their wellbeing.

“I think it’s best to stop drinking for the night, John,” he says, ignoring the half-compliment.

John looks at his own empty hand, confused, until he gets the joke and a sheepish grin spreads over his face. “Right. Yes.” He pretends to put the non-existent glass down on the kitchen table and manages to knock some sheets of paper to the floor in the process. Neither of them bothers to pick them up; they’ll probably stay there until either Sherlock happens to need those particular notes or the mess in the flat starts to bother John too much, which has yet to happen. Or, more likely, Mrs Hudson will come up one of these days, scold them and clear the floor for them. Sherlock makes a mental note to thank her next time.

John’s eyelids are drooping. He seems quite content now that his questions are answered, although his knees are threatening to buckle under him. He lets out a huge yawn, and oh how weak Sherlock feels. With an exaggerated sigh he gets up from his armchair and settles his hand on John’s shoulder, keeping him from slumping into his chair and falling asleep right there and then.

“Bedroom,” he commands, realising the double meaning a second too late.

John, however, just leans into his touch gratefully, his cheek brushing Sherlock’s forearm. “Mm. Did you say ‘reasonably good-looking’? Have to remember that. In the, uh, morning. So I can write. Blog.”

“Oh, most likely you will remember everything.”

“That’s nice. I want to remember this.”

“I can’t imagine why. You will have a headache, by the way.”

John raises a finger to silence him and takes a couple of steps towards the stairs, not exactly the epitome of gracefulness, but steady enough.

Despite himself, Sherlock feels the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Actually,” he admits, “you’re very handsome, John. Now go to bed.”

If John registers this in his sleepy haze, he doesn’t react. And that’s probably for the better, isn’t it, much less hassle in the morning, fewer awkward words hanging between them.

Sherlock lets go of the shoulder he’s still clasping and watches as John ascends the stairs, his movements agonisingly slow but determined now that he’s carrying out an order. A bit of sentimentality engulfs him at the sight, and he tries not to pay attention to the pain that comes with it.

Outside, the view is changing, flickering between a clear indigo night sky and a burgundy one almost hidden from sight by falling snow, like a broken television.

 

***

They don’t talk about that night, and John doesn’t write about it either, though Sherlock is sure he does remember most of the conversation.

It only takes one carelessly wrapped sheet around Sherlock’s body to change everything, and certainly not for the better. The lack of interesting cases in March renders him bored and lazy, and on some days he doesn’t bother putting his clothes on at all; instead, he walks around in a sheet. He’s always careful to hide the curse, but as all secrets, it finds a way to become known. This time it’s Sherlock passing by the bathroom one evening and the sheet getting caught in the door handle, causing it to fall off of his left shoulder, and John choosing just this moment to enter the same space.

“Oh, hi,” he says and does a double-take. “Iꟷ _Do you have a tattoo_?”

“What? No!” Sherlock manages to free the sheet from the handle and hides the curse from sight.

“Then what was that?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, I saw it. Come on, you can admit if you have a tattoo.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Please. As if I did.”

“Then what is it? Let me see.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, _let me see_. If it’s really nothing, you can show me, right?” John steps closer and reaches out to him, brows furrowed. Always the concerned doctor.

“Leave it, John.” Sherlock grits his teeth as his fingers fumble to catch the approaching hand, but John has already got hold of the sheet and pushed it aside to reveal the curse. Now it just seems like Sherlock is pressing John’s palm there, over his heart, and he quickly lets his hand drop and resigns himself to staying very still while John studies the black shapes. His little puffs of breath tickle Sherlock’s skin, and he shivers delicately.

“It’s cold,” John comments. His fingers stop when Sherlock lets out a tiny gasp. “Does it hurt?”

As if hearing the tentative question, the curse sends a wave of pain along his torso.

Sherlock swallows with difficulty and says, “No.”

“Yes it does, I can tell.”

He shrugs, and the sheet decides to fall off of his other shoulder as well. John finally seems to become aware of the intimacy of the situation; his lips part, his shoulders tense a little and his gaze flickers up to meet Sherlock’s, then drops quickly back down as if what he sees there is too revealing. Clearing his throat, he resumes studying the thorns, his touch now impossibly light.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Seriously, Sherlock, what is it?”

Sherlock sighs; there’s no getting out of the situation. Should have just lied it was a tattoo. “It’s a curse.”

John’s face goes through an array of emotions in a matter of seconds. Sherlock has to give it to him that he accepts the truth very quickly; only a tiny bit of disbelief escapes from him. Perhaps their lives are already so bizarre that a curse is simply a new mystery to solve. Unfortunately Sherlock has already solved the mystery, and the solution is both disappointing and unpleasant in the extreme.

“You mean someone _cursed_ you? Who? Why?”

“Not ‘someone’. Something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know for sure,” he lies, “but I must have done something to make it appear.” Indeed, and he’s doing the same thing at this very moment, letting John in, letting him see and hear and sense.

At this, John looks up at him with dark, intense eyes, and his nostrils twitch in an angry sniff. “Yeah, whatever it was, this is not fair.”

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock says. “But I _should_ have been more careful.”

“How could you have known?”

He stays silent and studies the wall, lips pressed tight together. John looks thoughtful, and after a while he removes his hand, letting Sherlock wrap the sheet better around his body and hide the now throbbing branches from sight.

“You didn’t find any help on the internet?” John asks, when the last bit of naked skin is safely behind cloth.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Curse breaking, not really an exact science. Most of the websites I found were complete rubbish.”

He doesn’t mention the protective poppet placed under his bed, complete with dark curls and long coat.

“Right,” John says. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

“It’s fine. _I’m_ fine.”

“ _Fine_? No, you’re not. You’re cursed, for God’s sake!”

“I’ve been this way for the last twelve years, John, I think I can handle myself.”

Even as he’s talking, icy fangs are nibbling his skin, getting hungrier by the minute.

“No, no you bloody can’t. You sleep way too little, you barely eatꟷ Sherlock? You okay?”

For a few seconds, John’s voice seems far away, which is completely illogical because he’s standing right there and Sherlock can still feel the ghost of his touch on his chest. He blinks rapidly and catches his balance.

“I… I’m… It does hurt.”

John’s attitude becomes firm again. “Yeah, that’s it, you’re going to go to bed now, and I’m going to make sure you actually get some rest.”

His protests are quickly silenced as John pushes him into his bedroom, strong hands clasping his shoulders and guiding him. This is not exactly how he imagined being taken to bed by John Watson.

“You think the curse will be ‘magically’ lifted if I sleep for eight hours?” he gasps as his legs hit the edge of the bed.

“No, but it can’t hurt. Now get ready, I’ll go and get you some water. Or tea, maybe?”

“Tea,” he says and adds quietly, “thank you.”

While John prepares the tea, Sherlock wriggles out of his sheet, pulls on a fresh pair of pants and gets under the covers. After he’s settled, John comes back and offers him his tea, then sits on the edge of the bed. He shifts awkwardly for a moment, hands clasped in his lap, legs trying to decide on a position. From the way his body is angled away from the door Sherlock can tell he’s not going to leave, and his back is going to get stiff very soon if he’s got nothing to lean against.

“Oh, it’s not contagious.” _You might as well get comfortable_ , he means.

“I know, you idiot,” John says, but he does scoot closer to the wall, propping the offered pillow behind his back. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this earlier.”

“I rather think it would have been a wiser decision to not tell you at all. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Stop complaining and start sleeping. And don’t even think about faking it.”

“Fine,” he huffs, drinks the scalding tea in a few gulps and drops his head onto the pillow, lying on his left side so he doesn’t have to show his face to the keen eyes watching him. The pain ebbs and flows, but, surprisingly, sleep is open to persuasion tonight, and so he drifts off before he can quite match his breathing to John’s.

 

***

He wakes up to a shaky feeling and finds his whole body trembling. There’s no aftertaste of a dream, just something stale and metallic on his tongue. But that’s not what’s causing his body to protest; rather, it’s a side effect of the same thing.

Sensing something’s off, he pulls down the covers to look at the curse.

There’s a single thorn sticking out of his chest, black and needle-sharp, the skin around it sore and red. While this is fascinating from a scientific perspective, he is soon alarmed; he can’t let John see this new stage of the curse. He would fuss even more, insist that he needs to inspect it closely, and Sherlock can’t bear any more of his touchꟷ

With a jolt he realises that John has moved closer in his sleep, though the distance is still quite modest. Acceptable for friends, he supposes, not that he knows much about bed sharing. Only, there’s a hand lying on top of his, fingers curling around Sherlock’s own longer ones, and this is probably not so usual. John’s lying on his back, quite peaceful – he’s not had nightmares. The pillow he was leaning on is only partly under his head, which is turned slightly towards him. His lips are parted and dry, and soft breaths are moving his chest in an even rhythm.

Blinking back unexpected feelings, Sherlock slides his hand out of the warm grasp, careful not to wake up John. Then he gets up and dresses as quickly and silently as he can, eager to get out of the room that seems to have become some domestic sanctuary overnight. John only stirs when he’s at the door.

“Sherlock?” he mumbles, rubs his eyes, and is suddenly wide awake. “Where are you going?”

“There’s a case.”

“A case – but – what about the curse?”

“Never mind that now.”

“Fine, we’ll talk about it later, but can I come?” John kicks off the corner of the blanket he’s stolen and starts to get up, frowning a little at the unfamiliar bed.

“No.”

“Why?”

“You don’t seem capable of thinking about anything else than the curse at the moment. You’d just be in the way.”

“Bloody hell, I’m trying to help you!”

“Well, you’re making it _worse_!” Sherlock roars.

This finally silences John. Sherlock catches a glimpse of his hurt look as he turns away, and it’s just like he imagined: John’s mouth is a hard line and his eyes are burning. But there’s no other choice. Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf and tries to forget the gentle hand that had held his just a few minutes ago.

As he descends the stairs in a few long, angry strides, Mrs Hudson comes out of her flat holding a frying pan.

“Sherlock, dear, why are you shouting? Some of us like to have a bit of quiet in the morning, you understand.”

“Oh shut up, Mrs Hudson.”

He sweeps past her ꟷ ignoring another hurt look he’s caused ꟷ and out of the front door, right into a snowstorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back earlier than expected because apparently I just can't stop writing this? Now I really have to focus on school stuff for a while, though.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Again, comments are appreciated. :>


	3. Shadowboxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did you mean, earlier?” John asks after a while.  
> “Hm?”  
> “You said I was making it worse. What did you mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks [SophiaFrederica](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaFrederica) for the beta work <3
> 
> Warnings are pretty much the same as in previous chapters!

The storm rages around Sherlock, snowflakes seeming to target his face like missiles as he twists on his feet, squinting at the street in search of a cab. His eyelashes and cheeks are already damp where the snow has melted, and his hair is sticking to his forehead; he must look as terrible as he feels. He wraps the scarf better around his neck, at last spotting the black vehicle he’s looking for.

The driver ( _in his 40s, formerly married but desperately trying to move on, has a habit of binge-eating during the night_ ) gives him a small smile, which is brave of him and doesn’t seem to fit the situation at all. Sherlock ignores the pleasantries, rattles the address in a clipped tone and settles on the backseat. He flips his phone out of his pocket and is annoyed to notice his hands are shaking. He no longer remembers what he was going to do with the phone.

The car windows are rimed with frost, almost impossible to see through, not that the visibility is much better outside. Despite that, details are jumping at him, too many of them at the same time. In fear of delving too deep into his mind and finding there the person he’s trying to get away from, he tries to focus on his surroundings. To Sherlock, the world always seems to be screaming; he has learned to navigate the noise and focus on the important bits, but it’s much too loud today. The whistle of the wind, the roar of his thoughts, everything around him and inside him joins to make an inharmonious choir.

He must seem jittery because the driver keeps glancing over his shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asks after the fourth time.

“Fine.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and endures.

 

***

Not long after, he bursts into Mycroft’s office, not bothering to knock.

It’s the last place he wants to be, but all his other options seem to have floated away one by one like specks of dust. Irritating as he is, Mycroft _knows_ a great deal of things, and he just might be an expert in what Sherlock’s about to ask him.

Mycroft greets him with raised eyebrows, having probably heard and recognized Sherlock’s footsteps from afar, if someone hasn’t informed him first. “Polite as ever, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignores this. “How do you do it?” he demands.

“Do what?”

For once, he wishes Mycroft could read his mind (well, read it even better). He’s tired of explaining, and he’s tired of people still not understanding after he’s laid it all out before them in the most logical way possible. Frankly, he’s tired of everything. “Not… care,” he says through gritted teeth.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rise even higher, and he returns to his files as if having lost interest in the conversation. Though he had probably lost it even before Sherlock stepped into the room.

“It’s never been a problem for me,” Mycroft says. There’s something strange in his expression that Sherlock can’t quite put his finger on, but it’s only there for a moment. Mycroft is a master of hide and seek, after all.

“No. But how can it stop being a problem for _me_?”

“I do wish I knew.”

“There must be some kind of trick.”

“You’ve been doing very well for the past few years, and you never seemed to care about my advice anyway. Why are you asking this now?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I need to break the curse.”

“Curse?” Mycroft echoes, puzzled.

“Yes, curse, this one right here,” Sherlock says, unbuttoning his shirt with irritation and wondering how many more people are going to see his exposed body within the next 24 hours. When he’s done, he spreads out his arms and takes a look at the newest developments himself.

As suspected, there is now a second thorn pushing through his skin, a bit lower than the first one. If not for the pain and other consequences, he could almost be proud of the morbid sight. It’s like a partly three-dimensional tattoo; he’s becoming a living piece of art, though he suspects he wouldn’t be too keen on hanging on a wall for other people to stare at. Wondering if he could cut a small piece of thorn for closer inspection (he’d scraped a bit of affected skin and carefully analysed it when the curse had first appeared, but he’d found nothing interesting), he looks up to see Mycroft’s reaction.

His stare, however, is blank. “Am I supposed to be looking at something other than your… bare chest?”

Sherlock frowns. “I thought even you had a little more discretion, Mycroft. I’m actually asking for your help. Imagine that.”

“I have no time for games, Sherlock.”

“There are thorns poking through my chest and you’re calling it a game?”

“It does seem like one because I certainly don’t see any ‘thorns’. Are you high? No, I suppose not. If you’re in pain, perhaps it would be wise to see a doctor. Oh, but you have one in Baker Street now, don’t you. How is he?”

“Stop it.”

“Kindly do the same and put your shirt back on, for God’s sake.”

“Not until you stop pretending,” Sherlock growls, a bit of panic mixing with the anger despite all his efforts to keep it down.

“Brother dear,” Mycroft says with an exasperated sigh Sherlock knows all too well, “I assure you I’m not pretending. Call anyone in this room, and they will tell you that there is nothing out of ordinary on your chest, or any other part of you, for that matter.”

Sherlock swallows and looks at the small puddle his shoes have made on the floor and swallows again, but the lump in his throat won’t go away. “You really can’t see it?” he asks. It’s been a long time since he’s spoken so quietly in front of Mycroft, and it feels humiliating to show so much weakness, but he needs to be sure.

“I’m afraid not.”

Sherlock scans Mycroft’s face for a moment, replaying the conversation in his head, trying to find a sign, a single thread of speech or a subtle change in expression that would expose his dishonesty.

He finds nothing.

Finally, he nods, his face again guarded, and buttons his shirt and coat. Without a word, he leaves the office in much the same fashion as he’d entered it.

“Do contact me if the need arises,” Mycroft calls after him.

“Piss off,” he mutters.

 

***

When he gets back into the cab, Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and thinks.

 _Shadowboxing_ is the first word that pops into his head. It’s as if he’s been swinging at his own shadow the entire time, fighting against a non-existent enemy - moreover, losing to it. That is, if he chooses to believe Mycroft, chooses to believe that the curse doesn’t exist.

However, there is at least one contradictory fact. John has seen the curse. He noticed it without Sherlock showing it to him, he touched it and asked about it and followed the shape of it on Sherlock’s skin.

If he chooses not to trust his own senses, there is a theory that would explain some of it, yet even the briefest thought of it makes his stomach lurch.

Is John, too, merely a figment of his imagination?

No, that doesn’t make any sense either. Mycroft has met John, he even mentioned John to Sherlock not ten minutes ago. Unless Mycroft is some sort of a ghost (which would certainly be an improvement), John must be a real person as well. It’s much more likely that there’s some condition one has to fill in order to see the curse than that it simply isn’t there, and never has been.

Still, the idea keeps nagging at him.

 

***

Sherlock wouldn’t blame Mrs Hudson for thinking there was a sudden thunderstorm, or perhaps an earthquake, as he stomps up the stairs to 221B. She doesn’t come out of her flat, though. Still angry, then. He will need to apologise later, when matters are not as pressing, bring her some flowers, too, yes, she’ll like that. Compliment the pie she’ll no doubt take out of the fridge without prompting. Let her go on about Easter and whatever else she talks about when he puts her on mute.

But first, John.

Sherlock comes to a halt at the top of the stairs, peering into the flat as he tries to catch his breath. He immediately knows John isn’t home, and it only boosts his anxiety, however unreasonable it is. He hangs his soaking coat in the bathroom, dries off his hair, and lights a fire in the fireplace, all without turning on the lights. He isn’t completely sure why, but it feels safer somehow.

Inside, the roar of the snowstorm is distant, merely a white noise in the background, but Sherlock can still feel the snowflakes on his face like sloppy, wet kisses, and see their shadows gliding across the floor in a violent dance.

He settles in his armchair and thinks about sending John a text.

 _Where are you?_ (Too direct.)

 _Bring milk._ (Better, but perhaps not the best option if he wants John to actually talk to him.)

 _Mrs Hudson’s making me watch reruns of Britain’s Next Top Model._ (Is there such a programme? He’s pretty sure there is.)

They’re all badly coded messages meaning the same thing: _Please come home_ , _I need to be sure I didn’t make you up._ Pathetic, really.

He lets the phone slide from his hand, instead counting the seconds between each throb the curse elicits. Seven, five, nine, four; there doesn’t seem to be a pattern.

 

***

When John finally comes home, he doesn’t so much _come_ as he drifts into the room, careful as the first rays of sun, as if afraid of damaging the calm. He takes in Sherlock’s figure sitting in the darkness and the fire crackling in the fireplace, then turns on the lights without a word. They both blink rapidly as they wait for their eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness.

“John,” Sherlock says then, trying hard to sound casual.

John nods, not meeting his eyes. His fist clenches and unclenches, indecisive. Fight or flight.

Sherlock needs to keep him in the room. “Sorry. About… you know. That.”

Another nod, but the silence doesn’t change. He decides to throw caution to the wind. “Are you real?”

Apparently the question is so out of nowhere that John forgets his anger. “Of course I’m real,” he says. “What’s this about, then?”

“Experiment.”

“No. You’re way too worked up. You visited someone. Was it Mycroft?”

Clever boy. No use pretending, then. “Mm. I’d like you to tell me something.”

John places his hand on the back of his chair, curiosity taking the better of him. “What, exactly?”

“Tell me something I have no way of knowing, some stupid fact I haven’t wasted brain space on. Like the… solar system thing. Going around the sun or whatever.” Sherlock waves his hand in a dismissive manner.

John raises his eyebrows. “You read about that, didn’t you? You were embarrassed so you went to the bloody library and read all about it.”

Sherlock glares at him, but doesn’t deny it. “It was utterly useless. Probably already deleted most of it. But fine, something else then.”

John sighs. “I don’t think this is going to work. I can’t think of anything like that right now, Sherlock. You’re just going to have to trust me when I say I’m real.”

“Fine. It was a stupid theory anyway.”

“Did he say something weird? Mycroft.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Oh, he either pretended not to see the curse or he actually didn’t see it. Not sure which it is yet.”

John purses his lips thoughtfully. “Well. That’s definitely weird.”

“Yes.”

They fall silent then, awkwardness driving them to gaze at the fireplace instead of each other. Sherlock thinks the silence is still tremendously better than all the screaming details. There’s something about John that makes the noise more bearable; something grounding.

“What did you mean, earlier?” John asks after a while.

“Hm?”

“You said I was making it worse. What did you mean?”

“I meant exactly that. It seems my f… that is, our association is making the curse spread.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not surprised.”

John shoots him a glare and crosses his arms. “Why would having a friend make it worse? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s not so simple”, Sherlock says quickly, torn between wanting to explain and wanting to steer the conversation well away from this topic. “You’re… It hasn’t been this bad. I haven’t let it happen, before. But now…”

John’s eyes bore into his. “Let what happen?”

Sherlock doesn’t speak in a long time, and when he does, he delivers the words to his toes, voice muffled behind his hands. “Sentiment.”

“You mean you, what, care about me a bit?” John stops, frowns and shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe what he’s saying. It pains Sherlock to think he’s played his part so well that John thinks this massive understatement is too much. He lets out a frustrated grunt as John continues, “And this curse thinks it’s not allowed and decides to poke you with thorns? Christ, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s a curse, John, it doesn’t ‘think’. But yes, that’s it in essence. Now if you’re going to be like my intolerable brother and insist that it’s all my invention–”

“No, I know it’s real.”

“Oh?” Sherlock says. “How can you be so certain, when–“

“I know the curse is real,” John cuts in again, “because there’s one on me, too.”

Sherlock snaps his gaze back to him. “What?”

“Yeah, if you’re interested. Appeared this morning.”

“But... No, it can’t be–“

“Come and see for yourself.”

Sherlock does, his heart pounding. John lifts his jumper until his chest is exposed, and there, above his left nipple, is a small black dot. John rubs it with his finger as if to show it doesn’t come off, like an ink smudge would. “Well?” he prompts. “Quite similar to yours, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s lip wobbles, and he can’t seem to get any words out, so he just nods. He doesn’t understand a single thing anymore, and it frightens him to have the rug pulled under him so suddenly. He doesn’t want to think about the implications of this, or about the pain that John’s undoubtedly feeling at the very moment, all Sherlock’s fault because he can’t control his desires. John has already suffered so much. He deserves to be able to choose the life he wants, even if it’s the danger, not have it forced upon him like this.

“You said it wasn’t contagious,” John says. It doesn’t sound accusing, but there’s still a silent demand for an explanation Sherlock doesn’t have.

“I thought it wasn’t.” His voice is barely a whisper, not carrying the defensive tone the words might suggest.

Well, there’s one thing he does understand. “You should get away from me.”

John lets out a hollow laugh. “Bit too late for that now, don’t you think?”

Sherlock gives him an unhappy smile in return. “There’s a chance it won’t spread if you do what is needed. I failed to do the same, but you still have time.”

“You want me to leave?”

“That would be for the best.”

They’re breathing hard by now, eyes locked, both waiting for the other to turn away. John takes a step backwards and then forwards again, disbelief and confusion written all over his face. Sherlock bites his tongue and starts counting down from ten, telling himself he has to say something even harsher, something that will drive John away for good, and he has to say it in five, four, three, two–

“Hang on, your neck,” John says suddenly, and the steps he takes are definitely in the wrong and oh-so-right direction as he reaches out and puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Now that Sherlock thinks about it, there’s definitely something cold trickling up his neck, twisting and turning on its way, slowly beginning to constrict him like a python. John’s fingers feel hot against his skin, his thumb settling over Sherlock’s pulse point.

“Don’t,” Sherlock starts, but John is not listening to him anymore, not really.

“It’s spreading fast. I need to do something!”

A sudden searing pain makes Sherlock groan; he no longer cares if John hears. There is a tiny ripping sound as a thorn pushes through his shirt, making them both gasp. Others are already waiting for their turn under his skin, he can feel them, and there are more of them than he could count with his fingers. He squeezes his eyes shut - if a nightmare is going to take him alive, he’d rather not see it happen. The least he can do is not let it take John, too, though.  

“Let go of me,” he pleads.

“No, no. You’ll be fine, just let me – let me help.” John’s voice breaks on the last word, and then Sherlock’s knees are buckling and John is placing one arm behind Sherlock’s back and another under his legs, huffing at the length of him. _To hell with curses_ , John seems to be yelling, _I’m going to save you_ , and Sherlock almost believes him.

He lets his body become very still, no longer resisting, and then he opens his eyes and looks at John, looks at him even as his vision is blackening, as he’s being lifted in strong, gentle arms, and loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger ;) Don't worry, it'll all be resolved next time! I hope you enjoyed the twists - either way, thanks for reading!


	4. Silence and Other Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, I know,” John says, “I know we’re rubbish at it, but I don’t think ignoring it is going to work this time. So please, Sherlock. Tell me what happened twelve years ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the longer gap between updates! I was busy with school stuff and then it took me a while to get back to writing.
> 
> Beta'd by [SophiaFrederica](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaFrederica/pseuds/SophiaFrederica), thank you dear!

Sherlock comes to with a gasp, a soft voice from the vast space between dream and reality he was just floating in still echoing in his ears. His eyes snap open and scan the dim room in a few quick sweeps. He’s lying on the sofa, his shredded shirt unbuttoned and a blanket covering his lower body, letting his toes peek out from under it. The fire is still crackling, but the storm has calmed a little, the roar of it now a gentle breath against the window.

As if looking at a finely crafted painting, his eyes are guided to the figure sitting on a chair beside him. John’s eyes are tired, his forehead frozen in a frown. After the initial gratitude, Sherlock feels a flash of anger at the sight of him. _Why is he still here?_

“Hi,” John says, relief evident in the roughness of his voice, unaware of the little storm brewing inside Sherlock. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says automatically; the need to cut off inquiries about personal matters is almost a reflex. He touches the real thorns on his chest tentatively – there are three of them now. The skin around them is itchy but soft, and there’s a faint smell of antiseptic cream on his fingers as he brings them to his lips.

John sighs, once again filling the role of exasperated friend. “No, really, Sherlock. How’s the pain?”

“Tolerable.” It’s true: the two-dimensional branches that started to spread around his neck have stilled for the time being, and he can breathe freely. Of course there’s the familiar dull ache around his upper body, but it’s nothing compared to the pain he has just experienced. He wonders what it would be like to be completely free of it, and if it would feel like a missing organ.

“Okay,” John says. “That’s good. Tell me if it becomes too much. I don’t want you to lose consciousness again.”

Sherlock gives him a noncommittal grunt. “You didn’t leave, then.”

“What? Of course I didn’t, and I’m not going to, either.”

“Stupid choice. You’re risking worse infection.”

“Yeah, about that. I’ve been thinking.” John straightens his shoulders and sucks in a breath, but Sherlock interrupts him.

“Not your forte, John. Would you instead describe when and how my curse stopped spreading?”

John drags a hand across his face, but doesn’t argue. “Well, it was just after you blacked out. After you, uh, never mind. I carried you here and when I set you down, your breathing eased and new marks stopped appearing. You were unconscious for about…”

“Fifteen minutes,” Sherlock finishes for him, and John nods.

“Yeah.”

“I should say thank you,” Sherlock ventures, gaze hesitating somewhere between his own hands and John’s knees.

Stirring in surprise, John clears his throat and doesn’t face him either as he says, “Well, it was my turn.”

“Your turn?”

“I, uh, I wasn’t well. When we met, I was considering…”

“I know.”

John’s smile is tight. “’Course you do. Anyway, you… yeah, you saved my life, Sherlock.”

On some level Sherlock knows what John’s talking about. It has been haunting him occasionally, the image of a man who had lost his purpose in life going about his daily chores alone, hands shaking with the need to make a change but mind too numb to give the command. Sherlock had wanted to mend him, but he hadn’t anticipated John would do the same for him, fill a hole so unique in shape no one else could have fit inside it.

“You shot the cabbie,” he says. It feels hopelessly inadequate, just a tiny fragment of his thoughts.

“Yes, I did, but still. I want to help you.” John raises his gaze and fixes Sherlock with a serious stare, determination set deep in the curve of his mouth.

“Fine.”

“Okay, good. But in order for me to do that, we need to talk.”

Talking, of course. Sherlock closes his eyes in annoyance and sighs.

“Yeah, I know,” John says, “I know we’re rubbish at it, but I don’t think ignoring it is going to work this time. So please, Sherlock. Tell me what happened twelve years ago.”

“Nothing.”

“Nope, don’t lie. First of all, you said sentiment made the curse worse.”

“Yeees.”

“So,” John says, his voice gaining volume, “you’re a genius, I’m sure you have some kind of theory as to what made it appear in the first place.”

“Sentiment.”

John rubs his knuckles against his thighs, breathing deeply through his nose to calm himself. “Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock sneers, already feeling humiliated by the things he’s about to admit. “Fine. For years, Mycroft tried to teach me to stop needlessly caring about other people because it would only lead to problems. He saw what I was like when our family dog had to be put down. I cried for weeks – over a _dog_ , John. Annoying as my brother was, I never listened to him until I went to university and began to truly realise the danger of caring. But it wasn’t easy, letting those feelings go. In fact, it was nearly impossible, and in the end it was too late. One morning I woke up to find the curse there and knew I had failed.”

He swallows in the ringing silence, the story a foul taste on his tongue, and hastens to continue before John can put one word after another. “You, then. You said yours appeared this morning. If we assume it can spread via personal contact, and one must touch the curse itself in order to become ‘infected’, there has been only one instance you could have caught it, yesterday evening. However, if any kind of physical contact will do it, there are numerous options, the latest of which was this morning.”

“This morning?” John manages to splutter. “When did I– Oh God, I didn’t… do anything in my sleep, did I?”

Sherlock’s cheeks warm a little. “Well…”

“What. Did I. Do.”

“I suppose it was what people might call ‘hand-holding’, though most likely you just reached for the closest available source of warmth.”

John sucks in a sharp breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit. Sorry.”

“It’s… fine,” Sherlock mumbles. He waits for silence to settle, then breaks it again. “When exactly did you notice the curse?”

“Not long after you stormed off,” John glances at him sideways, “I noticed my chest hurt a bit. Went to the loo and noticed this little dot. I was so pissed off I tried to just ignore it, and that made me think. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t spreads via personal contact. It’s more like an idea or, uh, a certain way of thinking.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, tries to follow the trail of John’s thoughts. He can’t be suggesting–

“What I’m saying is, I think it’s the opposite of sentiment. Repressing emotions or something like that.”

“Ridiculous. If it was, we wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.”

“But you know, the pain started right after I had some pretty mean thoughts. The kind of shit you say that I don’t think even you really believe.”

Stunned, Sherlock shakes his head furiously, trying to gather the pieces of his mask that’s shattered on the floor. Because even if John is right, he can’t let it slip. He can’t.

“And _you_ tell others not to become too attached to their theories if they’re not supported by all the facts,” John says, the blow softened with a crooked smile.

“Shut up.”

“Anyway, I’m going to test my theory now, okay?”

“If you must.”

But how exactly is he going to do that? John’s thoughts create a huge cobweb on his face, but Sherlock’s own are muddled, objectiveness of his deductions eaten away by his own hopes and fantasies. He waits, lips pressed together, swallowing all his uncertainty and annoyance.

“Look,” John says, “there’s something I’d like to tell you. Umm… Because I don’t think you know – _how_ can you not know?”

“ _John._ ”

“Yeah, okay.” He takes a deep breath, holds it for three agonisingly long seconds. Then he shrugs as if in defeat and grips Sherlock’s hand, speaking huskily. “I’m in love with you.”

His heart jumping, Sherlock has to shut his eyes to make sense of the words, to savour them. As he listens to the endless echo of them, the deductions start to become crystal clear, organising themselves in his mind in ways that should have been obvious, and yet it took them months to get there.

“Goddammit,” John breathes as an afterthought, then relaxes as if the weight of what he’s just said had come close to crushing him. Maybe it really had; Sherlock knows his own feelings are consuming him from the inside out.

“Oh. Oh wow,” John says suddenly, in a completely different tone.

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, and he would grab John by the jumper and pull it off if John wasn’t already doing it himself. After he has struggled his arms out of the sleeves and let the jumper drop on the floor with a soft thud, they both stare at his chest, searching for the single black dot.

It’s not there.

A shiver runs through Sherlock as he registers the implications of this, the truth landing on his shoulders like a huge bird, the flutter of its wings tickling his neck.

John Watson is in love with him, and admitting it lifted his curse.

“I was right. It’s gone,” John says needlessly, his voice full of wonder. “The pain, too.”

Sherlock’s mouth has fallen open. It’s as if he’s been living in an upside-down world only to find it flipped around with just a few words.

_Repression. Not existence. Stupid. Stupid._

“So it would seem,” he manages to say.

“You okay?” John asks softly, a smile tugging at his lips, but as Sherlock just stares, a hint of nervousness starts creeping back to his features. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand, just once, then lets go.

“Yes. No.” To his horror, a tear runs down Sherlock’s cheek. It must have been planning its escape for a long time to get away so quickly, and yet he didn’t notice. What else has he missed?

“John,” he says helplessly, staring at the thorns still sticking out of his own chest, heart throbbing with the knowledge that they might disappear if he could just summon the strength to say the things he’s been keeping to himself for so long. It’s utterly terrifying.

For a beat John looks like he’s about to run away, but then his hands are back, one curling around Sherlock’s fingers and the other cupping his face.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. “God, I didn’t think – was it that bad?”

And Sherlock has to smile at that, just a little. “As far as declarations of love go, I suppose yours wasn’t the worst possible.”

He stops to swallow audibly, thoughts faltering, struggling to find the correct translations now that he needs them more than ever.

_Repression, not existence._

_Leave the mask behind._

“That is… I feel the same, John.”

As soon as the confession leaves his mouth, air rushes into his lungs as if he’d been holding his breath for the last few months. Years, even. Two of the three-dimensional thorns crumble to dust, and the black branch-shaped markings stretching across his skin start to fade slowly, taking the dull ache with them.

John beams at him and leans in so that their foreheads are touching, the hand cupping Sherlock’s face traveling down his neck and chest, brushing the scars left by the thorns. “Yeah?”

He sounds pleased, almost proud.

“So it would seem,” Sherlock repeats. He burrows his face into John’s shoulder and breathes him in, too overwhelmed to look at him right now. It feels strange, being this close, but entirely right in a way few things in his life have.

As his brain works its way through a series of recent memories, rearranging and reinterpreting them, he is hit by a wave of amusement.

“Oh. The thing you realised when you came home early.”

John shifts, embarrassed. “You remember that, huh?”

“Obviously.”

“Mm. Yeah, it was this. I tried to find some company at the bar but I just wasn’t feeling it, and then I realised I just wanted to come home. To you. Freaked me out a bit, to be honest, so I probably had too much to drink.”

With a last sigh into the crook of John’s neck, Sherlock dares to face him again. “I’m glad you did. Come home, I mean.”

“Yes, well… I didn’t think you’d want it. I told myself I’d have to give up on you, that there was no way you could, you know. Because you said… And it would be fine. I mean, it’s still fine. I just, uh.” Probably realising he’s not making much sense, John shakes his head and leaves the sentence unfinished. “By the way, sorry about the, er, personal questions.”

“Yes, you were rather straightforward. Or perhaps not so ‘straight’ in retrospect.” Sherlock quirks a smile at his own terrible joke.

John huffs out a reluctant laugh. “Yeah, definitely not. Sorry, really. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“John,” Sherlock says, letting the name roll slow and heavy on his tongue. “If you haven’t deduced from our current position, I don’t mind your… advances. Well, not anymore.”

“That’s good. So, um. Do you? Want this?” John gestures at the two of them, pulling back a little to see Sherlock’s face better.

“You’d know if I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but please. Tell me properly.”

“I do, John. I do,” Sherlock says quietly, basking in the knowledge that he can actually say this without a sharp stab of pain. “Come on then, your back must be hurting you.”

“What?” John says, but quickly gets the idea as Sherlock pulls him even closer. He kicks the chair away and scrambles on top of Sherlock on the sofa, arms and legs on either side of him.

“Kiss your boyfriend?” Sherlock asks with a half-serious, half-teasing face, for once allowing himself to be a bit ridiculous. It’s the endorphins, no doubt.

“God yes. Shame we already had our first kiss, though.”

“What, when?”

“Figured you’d forgotten about it. You kissed me right before you lost consciousness.”

Sherlock groans. “How cliché. We might want to make this one more memorable.”

John grins at him, eyes bright. Sherlock counts his heartbeats, five rapid thuds, before John presses him flat against the sofa and kisses him. At first it’s just a taste, a shared breath and a brief meeting of lips, all fluttery feeling. But then it deepens, gradually revealing the underlying desire, their hands joined or wandering across warm backs and thighs.

“How’s that?” John breathes into Sherlock’s neck in between kisses, making his skin tingle.

“Fine,” Sherlock says. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but gives in and breaks into chuckles as John grunts at the obvious understatement. “More than fine. Don’t stop.”

John hums but doesn’t continue, his eyes dark and flickering with ideas, fingers stroking Sherlock’s sides absently as he tries to work out how to proceed. “Bedroom?” he asks then, his tone light and careful, the implications clear but easy to brush away if needed. As much as he seemingly needs to ask this and wants the affirmative, he’s giving Sherlock space, a chance to run for cover before the downpour if he so decides.

But Sherlock wants this storm; in fact, he doesn’t remember not wanting it.

“Yes. You can carry me there,” he says, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders and pulling his knees up expectantly.

“In your dreams,” John huffs. “You’re bloody heavy.”

 

***

John’s eyes don’t leave Sherlock’s as they abandon the rest of their clothes on the bedroom floor. It’s a fierce look overflowing with life, and it opens locked doors in Sherlock’s mind, allowing John to step in and walk the labyrinth without fear.

Their bodies tangle on the bed, warmth gathering between their bellies, and Sherlock realises it’s not about who’s finding who, it’s about meeting each other halfway, over and over again.

They fill the gaps in his dreams, stopping to ask for less or more if needed, whispers turning into sighs. And there, in the rocking of their bodies, is the lightning strike he’s been waiting for, electric heat in his fingertips; and a shuddering plea, heard and answered.

 

***

“Why do you think Mycroft didn’t see the curse but we did?” John asks, his frame warm and lazy next to Sherlock’s.

“I don’t know,” he says, even though he does know why, or suspects he does.

It’s because John had _seen_ him, not quite in the same way he’d seen John, but he’d looked at Sherlock and understood, perhaps on some subconscious level, the forces driving him because the same forces were driving him as well.

And Mycroft, well, he doesn’t know half as much as he thinks he does.

Sherlock breathes out a silent _thank you_ , a soft puff against John’s cheek.

 

***

He wakes up before John, slips out of a dream so light he might as well have been awake all along. He glances briefly at his chest, not yet used to the absence of pain. The marks have faded a bit more and the last of the real thorns has disintegrated; out of habit, he collects some of the black dust still left on his skin for future examination.

The morning light has a strange quality. Sneaking into the room through the gap under the door, it feels warm and nostalgic, though Sherlock doesn’t immediately understand why. He gets up, breathing the combined scent of them, and leaves John snoring softly, his nose pressed into the pillow.

Following his intuition, Sherlock goes to the sitting room and draws the curtains aside. When the sudden excess of light stops hurting his eyes, he takes in the view that’s so different from the day before it makes him wonder for a second if he’s stepped into some sort of alternative universe.

The streets, once under a layer of snow, are now wet and glistening. Tiny clouds hang high above the buildings as if waiting for the wind to blow them away, their job already finished for the day. All in all, it looks like an ordinary morning in late March – or what those used to look like before the eternal winter the world has been living for the past few years.

“Sherlock?” John calls from the bedroom, making him start.

“It’s spring,” Sherlock blurts out, more to himself than John.

“Can’t hear you, love.”

“Spring, John!” he yells over his shoulder.

Two thuds, then John’s bare feet tapping on the floor as he walks into the room, his hair mussed and his eyes only half open. Even in his bewilderment, Sherlock can’t help but admire the way John’s boxers cling to his thighs, a pleasant memory making his neck flush.

“What d’you mean?” John asks. “Of course it’s spring. Come back to bed.”

Sherlock glances out of the window once more, the undeniable warmth outside almost teasing, urging him to solve the mystery. But for once in his life, he sets it aside and walks over to John, a much more interesting one.

 

***

In some ways, it’s easier to live without the mask. Still, although only light scars now remind them of the curse, the learned behaviours don’t magically change overnight, nor do the fears upon which Sherlock used to build his existence disappear in a flash. There are days he wakes up unable to ignore the phantom pain in his chest, unable to take a step closer to John. On those days, he can just barely make out the shadows of snowflakes on the ground even though there’s nothing casting them.

Sometimes John goes quiet, too, but they have learned to get through those days. Whenever one of them gets the dreary, unseeing eyes of someone who’s wandered too close their demons, John puts his hand on Sherlock’s chest, lightly tracing the memory of the thorns that had once curved over his heart. It’s a gentle reminder to them both, _I’m here and I’m not going anywhere_ , and he covers John’s hand with his own and agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know if you enjoyed this :)  
> And if you'd like to read more by me, feel free to subscribe to me here on AO3 or follow me on [Tumblr](http://mirrorlocked.tumblr.com)! I'm planning a post-s4 getting together fic that I'll probably write sometime this summer.


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